Sympathy for the Devil
by Pandorama
Summary: He didn't mean to... House/Cuddy, at the conclusion of "Joy"


**A/N:** Set during "Joy," so if you're in some plane of existence where Season 5 hasn't aired yet and you've not found a way to catch up online (do those people even exist?), this will be vaguely spoilerish. Otherwise, read away.

This is a companion sort of thing to melissaisdown's piece, "Shine a Light," and if it's not otherwise obvious, both titles are Rolling Stones songs. If you've never listened to a Stones song (other than the ones House listens to, those don't count) then consider your education terribly incomplete. Your life, even. Go forth and purchase Forty Licks and prepare to have your mind blown.

* * *

**Sympathy for the Devil**

He hadn't meant to come here. He'd mounted his bike with the intention of going home, but his brain and body hadn't quite been on the same wavelength, apparently, and he'd looked up and found himself parked outside of _her_ house.

He hadn't meant to walk up her path. Upon finding himself here, he had planned to gun the engine and turn around and just go home, where he could forget the nagging sensation of sympathy in the stupor of Jack and vicodin. Feeling something forthright was neither intended nor expected_._

He hadn't meant to knock. It wasn't his style. Havoc, chaos, tumult – those were his style. Breaking and entering was his preferred method of ingress, when it came to her and her personal space. Rude, crude, and lewd in her presence and perspective. He tried not to tamper with that image.

He hadn't meant to look in her eyes. She was a medusa, that woman, whose eyes held his inevitable end. He'd become adept at looking just near enough that she'd be fooled, while really he was gazing solemnly at the curve of her brow or the reflection of light off her shadowed lids. But they'd reeled him into their azure depths, luring him, pleading, and held fast to his.

He hadn't meant to tell her the truth. Her mothering skills had never been a question in his mind. Of her first child she was so utterly protective that it was nothing short of a miracle she kept his malign presence in its walls. Unless the miracle proved to be an emotion, her own (albeit resented) ultimate choice that he, House, was her penultimate priority. And aye, there was the rub.

He hadn't meant to let the tremor and ache in her tone penetrate his gut and twist it in knots, or to realize, even in the depths of his subconscious, that he was vulnerable to her pain. His attraction to her had always and would always be her vim and vigor, though the sloping, sleek curves and an ass to match certainly didn't hurt. And despite his painstaking efforts to the contrary, watching her cry may well have been a kick to his bad thigh.

He hadn't meant to submit to her anger, or offer a temperate response. He answered all of her questions with a razor-sharp reply, designed deliberately to disarm her and to bring crimson flooding to her cheeks. The anguish in her inquiry had triggered an accidental admission: that he didn't know. Why did he push instead of pull, had for two decades, when what he really craved was her, impossibly close?

He hadn't meant to kiss her. But he had, and she'd responded in a violent deluge of lust and desperation. And god, but it had been fantastic. If she hadn't pulled back he knew he wouldn't have had the strength to stop. So in the morning, she'd have looked at him, hurt at having an open wound used as an open door, but she'd have been wrong; he'd simply have been incapable of stopping. She was addictive, and he was an addict.

He hadn't meant to leave. His instinct was to back her against a wall and soothe her and sate her and claim her. She needed someone. So Joy was gone, but he'd have been someone. Dysfunctional at best, and he'd inevitably break her heart, but for a little while, she wouldn't have been alone. He'd have made her forget.

He had never meant to fall victim to the devil herself, the siren of sin, the lusty Lothario, but Christ, he'd been dealt the fifteenth card, and what he desired, any idiot knew he didn't cease chasing until he had it in his grasp.


End file.
